


an ungodly hour

by xylodemon



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Book Spoilers, Ficlet, Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ibis thinks it's far too late for the telephone to be ringing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an ungodly hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eight_demands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eight_demands/gifts).



> Written for [](http://fandom_stocking.livejournal.com/profile)[**fandom_stocking**](http://fandom_stocking.livejournal.com/) 2011\. This could be read as Ibis/Jacquel, but you'd have to squint incredibly hard and maybe tilt your head to the side.

The Bakelite telephone on the desk rang once, then twice. It didn't make a pleasant sound to begin with, but this late -- at what some people would call an ungodly hour -- it was terribly jarring, broke the funereal silence like a sledgehammer on a church bell. Ibis sighed softly, rubbing his eyes under the round rims of his glasses; the tilting grandfather clock in the corner suggested it was a little after four. He reached for the telephone, but it shrilled off in the middle of the fourth ring.

A careful murmur pushed under the closed office door, rising and falling in a way that hinted at a gruff, grunting voice. Ibis pictured Jacquel as he probably looked standing in the hallway, leaning into the telephone niche across from the bathroom, his sharp shoulders hunched and his brown skin very dark against the faded, pinstripe wallpaper. He would have both hands on the receiver, because he always held the receiver that way.

Jacquel hated the telephone. Ibis couldn't imagine who was on the other end of the line, but he wasn't quite curious enough to get up and ask. He'd find out sooner or later, and he had work to do.

Ibis wrote his personal histories longhand, using an expensive fountain pen older than most people still living, and a journal bound in maroon leather and finely tooled with gold. He liked the cautious, spidery lines his fountain pen made, and the crisp _scritch_ of a sharp nib moving over good paper. He'd used a proper quill for all his writing until 1967 -- when the bank started questioning his checks and the customers started commenting with more than polite interest.

The house creaked in that quiet, maudlin way it had, and Ibis frowned at the almost-empty page waiting in front of him. Children were the hardest, because there wasn't much to say; he always wanted to fill the empty spaces with everything they could have done -- should have done -- but his job only dealt with truth and facts. He pinched the bridge of his nose, setting his pen to paper. The house creaked again, a sound that felt louder and more deliberate than the first, and Ibis looked up.

Jacquel was hanging in the doorway, his hand still resting on the handle.

"Good morning," Ibis offered.

"Not so fast," Jacquel said, glancing out the window. The heavy, brocade curtains were pulled back, showing a clear sky that hadn't even begun to bruise. "You've still got another hour."

Ibis consulted the clock again; at the tone, the time would be fifteen-past-four. "I suppose."

"Why are you even up?"

"I couldn't sleep."

Jacquel nodded and leaned into the doorjamb. He was wearing his work clothes, a dark apron over his shirt and livid bloodstains on both his sleeves, and it occurred to Ibis that they'd been in business at this location for well over a hundred years. The people in town didn't notice because Ibis and Jacquel didn't want them to notice, but one day, they might. One day, Ibis might not be strong enough to bend the truth away from curious minds.

"Who was on the telephone?" Ibis asked, because that felt like a safer train of thought.

"Wednesday."

"Really?" They hadn't heard from Wednesday in four or five years. Before that, it had been closer to thirty. "What does he want, after all this time?"

"His boy is in trouble."

"I thought his boy was in prison."

Jacquel shrugged lightly. "He's out now, and evidently, he's already in hot water. Wednesday wanted to know if we'd give him a place to lie low for a few days."

The house has been strangely quiet since Set and Horus left, and Bast was a cat more often than not these days.

"Well, we certainly have the space," Ibis said, pushing his pen and journal aside. "I do hope he isn't bothered by the dead."


End file.
